Writing anything feels like such a struggle. I don’t know why. It’s been like that all week.

I meander this morning some more, but it is headbreaking. The last time I wrote something—was it yesterday?—it wasn’t headbreaking. Perhaps I couldn’t handle it all.

I’m thinking I still don’t know who I am. I cannot look back at the past and say inside there was really this person inside me and this is the real reason I made that choice. Actually, I have no idea.

Specifically, I have no idea how I started to feel so much for C or why I am telling her now I won’t ever leave her. I don’t know if this is because of trauma or if it is my real personality showing through. I think I am scared to care so much.

There is, of course, my sensible side telling me this is not sensible. You cannot change your whole life’s plan because you think a child needs you. Well, what was I planning on doing anyway? But really that’s not the main thing.

I think there’s something in there about worth and value. If I think she needs me, then I have something to offer. I have value and worth. How can I? I am remembering the different rocks. How can I be the person who can lift a rock?

It sets of a whole set of associations about worthlessness. I realize the abuse I suffered felt personal. It felt intended to destroy me. I think now, from an adult perspective, that it wasn’t personal. I just had parents who didn’t give a shit. I got picked, maybe arbitrarily, to get a worse share of it. But that might have been for any reason or no reason. I have blue eyes, or I am smaller, or I was born last, or I had more self-control and broke later. It felt intended to destroy me because it was destroying me. I was a child. My skills in reasoning were not profound. If it feels that way, it must be that way. It was destroying me. It broke apart my personality. That’s really the damage. It’s not all the pain necessarily, it’s this aberration in my development. I could not cope with the pain well enough to do anything else. I mean, nothing was left over for creating a coherent social self. I could manage, at best, a patchwork.

It feels to me, thinking from the perspective of that childhood worthlessness that whoever is inside me must be bad. I mean, it’s not a particular quality, it’s not the person I might experience myself to be. I don’t even know who I might be. It is whoever I am. Whoever I am must be worthless and terrible, because they want to kill it.

There are all these specifics that can be added onto that. I did this wrong. I feel guilty about that thing. I am ashamed of this quality. This particular kind of abuse made me feel dirty. But the core of it is something else.

The core of it is this: I must be the wrongness. I must need to be destroyed. Because that’s what the grownups are doing. That’s what my parents are doing. And they are my parents. They know best.